


Moving in a Still Frame

by secretkeeper



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Bipolar Disorder, Child Abuse, Drug Use, M/M, Multi, Prostitution, Self-Harm, attempted suicide, mental issues
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-01-26
Updated: 2013-01-29
Packaged: 2017-11-26 22:26:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 7
Words: 23,021
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/655063
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/secretkeeper/pseuds/secretkeeper
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>These are fragments of John and Sherlock's lives, as they move forward and heal the broken pieces.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Three Moments

1

The first sign is always the shopping bags.

Some days when John arrives back at 221B, he will then see the dozens of bags strewn across the floor.

There's always a reason - gifts for Sherlock's homeless network, jumpers John might want, bonuses to be tossed in with the rent for Mrs. Hudson, random items that may have a use some day. 

It's not like he can't afford them, Sherlock tells John, his words rushing out as fast as he can think of them. He does have the money to spend. Why not spend it?

John stays quiet. He finds himself taken to the best restaurants in London, and if they can't get in due to lack of reservations then Sherlock just takes him elsewhere.

There is a full meal each time - try this John, don't forget a dessert, let's have a bottle or two of wine. If things are especially bad Sherlock will start treating the people around them to free food and drink. Sometimes this brings smiles, but much of the time the diners are wary of this man who cannot stop talking, gesturing, and orders a full meal but eats only a few bites before going on to something else.

And yet, John feels a certain desire for these times. Perhaps it is because when they end, Sherlock is dead inside, and his talk of boredom with life takes on a darker tone than the usual.

At least during the high periods, he gains some measure of happiness.

2

The sunshine is mocking him.

Sherlock can't stand the fact that it is a perfect day outside, that even the weather seems to be saying the words _no good, worthless, freak_ over and over again.

John will come to his door and knock, asking him if he would like something to eat. Sherlock can't imagine eating anything - his appetite is completely gone, and even if he does manage to eat all he then can think of is all of the people in the world who deserve to have what he has. He tells John to give it to someone who is worthy of eating. John just says "Fine,” and doesn't push the issue. No tears, no fuss.

_(the only time John cried in front of him was when Sherlock explained why his bedroom door was always locked)_

If he does end up making it out of bed, Sherlock then will often wind up on the couch. Sometimes John will call Sarah with an excuse to stay home with him _(and now you're making his patients suffer, how much more despicable could you get)_.

He makes no demands of John during the bad times. When he has returned to a more even state, Sherlock pushes and pushes John away from him. He knows that John will hate him one day, just like everyone else, and this way he has some power over when it happens.

Because, how could someone so caring love someone so worthless?

3

John, to this day, doesn't know what made him ask the question.

It ended up coming out one morning. It had been a good few days for Sherlock - while it had still been some time since the last case, John had yet to see any shopping bags or the sight of Sherlock lying on the couch with an expression of utter misery. Dealing with a pot of eyeballs on the stove was a small price to pay.

The exact reason he asked might have been lost, but his words were not. "It's a fire hazard, you know."

Sherlock had glanced at him. "I'm sorry? I can assure you I know how to be cautious with my experiments."

John shook his head. "Not that. I was talking about the fact you always have the door to your room locked whenever you're inside. If you were to have something happen, that could be dangerous. I will say right now that if you have the door closed, I won't come in."

The detective had then turned to look at the wall. "I trust you. It just happens to be a habit I fell into during university. Sebastian used to come into my room at night around two or three nights a week."

John could hazard a guess as to what had happened then. Sebastian, when he had met the man, had struck him as a bit of a bully, and he could see the man finding it hilarious to play pranks on the "freak" in order to build himself up. "So, what was it he used to do?"

"Oh, sometimes he would just rub his hands on me, or he would have me suck his cock, or he would fuck me. I never knew what it would be, and given my overall dislike for sex it wasn't all that fun. I now choose to keep other's access on my terms."

The neurons of John's brain were misfiring. All he could think was _does not compute!_ "Didn't you ever say anything to anyone about what happened?"

Sherlock looked genuinely surprised. "No. I always have felt that one's sex life is their own business unless it relates to a case of some sort."

John felt as if he had just entered some kind of modern horror film. "I meant that he was assaulting you. Why didn't you inform someone at uni?"

" _Assaulting_ me? Oh, no. I never told Sebastian the word no or that he should stop. It wasn't assault - he had no reason to suspect that I didn't enjoy myself, or that I didn't want it. The fact that it was uncomfortable was due to the fact that I have always hated sex - John, is something the matter? Why are you crying? Have I upset you?"


	2. An Encounter in a Bar

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sally and John talk, and pieces of Sherlock are put in place.

 

No matter who one happens to be, there will always be a single truth: people enjoy having reasons to celebrate.

Sally Donovan did not consider herself to be any different in that regard. So when several of the other officers said that they were planning on getting drinks at the pub nearby one Friday night and would she be interested in coming along, Sally began to come up with reasons she should go. She tallied them up inside her head as she walked along with Clark and Dimmock (Gregson had gone ahead to make sure they would have a table). It could have been because Sally had been directly responsible for catching a burglar who had been robbing homes in the West End for the past month or so- without having to call for Sherlock Holmes the freak even once. Maybe it was because Anderson's divorce papers had finally arrived and he was now free to date whomever he wanted, instead of looking for no-strings-attached sex with her from time to time. Hell, if she wanted to be shallow, she could even mention that it was no longer quite so humid out, so that her hair was not a frizzy nightmare each and every morning. It may have been superficial, but Donovan felt that sometimes one was entitled to be shallow if circumstances warranted it.

Lestrade waved goodbye to them as they walked out- Donovan and Clark had both asked the DI if he wanted to come with them, but Lestrade explained that he already had a date for that night. Privately, Sally was glad. It had been two years since Nia had died, and it did Gregory Lestrade no good to go home every night to four kids and a bed too big for one man. If he was starting to move on, then all the more power to him.

The only rule adhered to by the four officers was that they could not discuss work at any time. This ended up leading to discussions on football, who Lestrade's mystery date was, and finally after two or three drinks the conversation led to family matters.

Sally didn't cling to the idea that in order to have a family one needed to be married with children, but the fact was that both Gregson and Clark had children, and all three of the men were married. Try as they might to include her, she was still a good seven to ten years younger and could not expect to relate to the tales of family that were now being told. Her eyes took to wandering around the pub.

It was the man sitting at the bar who finally caught her attention. The sandy blond hair, the striped jumper, even his posture - the man was unmistakably John Watson. He had a mostly full glass in front of him, but John didn't appear to be paying it any mind. His hands were clenched into fists as they rested on the top of the bar.

To put it simply, he looked _pissed._

After making sure that her absence would not be remarked upon, Sally threw down a few pounds to pay for her share of the drinks, and walked over to the bar. “John,” she said. “How are you doing? What's the freak done to get you so pissed this time?”

John turned to her rapidly with an expression of burning rage on his face. “Don't - Don't call him... _He's_ not behind this. Don't you _dare_ imply that.”

“Sherlock Holmes may not be the reason, but I don't need to be a consulting detective to see you're upset. If you want me to go away, then I will, but don't get mad with me unless I'm the reason you look like you want to punch someone.” Not that Sally could be the reason he was angry. They'd seen each other at crime scenes, but they hadn't spoken in weeks. She hadn't even talked to Sherlock in over a week, so this wasn't about any slights to his colleague.

John turned away before speaking. “If you must know, I was wondering if you could tell me what the statute of limitations is on sexual assault.”

In the annals of “things John Watson is likely to say to her”, Sally Donovan would have ranked that one somewhere between “we have a coop of chickens in our flat” and “I'm moving to the country and taking up sheep farming”. Keeping her tone of voice as neutral as possible, she asked “Why do you need to know? Does it have anything to do with Afghanistan?” Sally had heard about what happened to women who served in the armed forces, and while the rates of sexual assault among male soldiers may have been less than those of women, it did not mean it was non-existent.

“I want to have an affirmative defense for when I get arrested for attacking a London banker in broad daylight.”

“John? If you want my honest opinion, you would be better served by coming to the authorities. The Yard will back you one hundred percent, even if it's been a while since...”

He cut her off. “This isn't about _me_ , Sally. It's _Sherlock._ And it would do no good to bring it to court, because he thinks it wasn't actually rape. He never said the word no, you see.” John bitterly laughed. “Anyone with half-decent counsel would get the case tossed in minutes.”

Slowly dawning revelation and horror were battling inside Sally Donovan at this time. Realizing that too much now made sense, she asked. “Okay. Start from the beginning. What, exactly, happened and how did you find out?”

“It was only a few nights ago. I told Sherlock that he shouldn't keep his bedroom door locked because it might be dangerous if there was a fire. He said that it was something he started doing after uni, because someone he knew from there used to come in his room at night. I asked what happened - I thought he was talking about pranks, dumping a basin of water on him or tying his hair in knots or something like that. Sherlock then told me that he used to grope him, or rape him, for at least two or three nights a week the entire time he was there. And he never told a soul. He said it was okay because he never said ‘stop!’ or ‘no!’. So you see, there was no way he could have known he didn't want it. He just hates sex, so it was unpleasant.” John's face had turned red by this point.

Part of Sally wanted to scream “Stop!” All she could think was how _wrong_ she had been. She had assumed that Sherlock Holmes could not have possibly understood the risks that most women were aware of as they went about their lives, that he was oblivious to that form of danger. Looking at John, she began to speak. “Do you know why it is I call Sherlock a psychopath? It started one of the first times I worked with him. I'd met him a few times before, and he'd always been abrasive to everyone. I thought up to that point that he was just trying to push us away, so I honestly was trying to be as nice as I felt circumstances warranted. The case involved a serial rapist - he was targeting women who went to clubs. I'm still not exactly certain how Sherlock solved the case - I was off when he did, something to do with the type of knife used and how that showed where the culprit lived - but I do remember what happened when we were questioning the most recent victim. Sherlock asked her if she'd said no, and he seemed happy when she said she'd told him stop. He told me a little bit later that if she hadn't said that, we wouldn't be able use her case. It would be “highly regretful,” he said. And all I could think was how unfeeling he was and how he couldn't understand what a rape victim went through. Only a psychopath would think that. Clearly, I was wrong.”

“I can't really blame you for thinking like you did. Sherlock is a master at keeping people away. Whenever I try to do something for him, he pushes me away. About two months ago, he ended up burning his arm in an accident with a Bunsen burner - or at least that was what he said happened. The whole time I was patching him up, he kept saying that I was a fool for making a fuss over this and implying my skills weren't up to par.”

A wan smile crossed Sally's face. “What did you do?”

John responded with a smile of his own. “I could have told him the truth: that I thought he had harmed himself on purpose, but I knew that if I did say that then that would push him even farther away. Just bandaged him up and told him to be more careful next time.”

The cogs in Donovan's head were spinning. Sherlock's reaction to being assaulted as an adult, his disregard for his own well-being, his history of drug use (as well as other things, but Sally did not know how much John was aware of right now), the self-harm if John was correct about the injury, and even the way he always wore that scarf and coat, as if he was trying to conceal his own body. She took a deep breath and asked “What do you know about Sherlock's past? Did he ever tell you anything about his childhood?”

Suspicion crossed John's face. “All I know is that he doesn't get along with his brother, and that they disagreed over who had upset their mother. Beyond that, nothing. Is there something that you are implying?”

“Yes, in fact I am. I've been with the Yard for long enough, and I can safely say that the way he reacted to being raped is not normal.”

“There isn't a standard -”

Sally put up her hand to cut him off. “I'm aware that no two victims act alike, and that there is a significant amount of people who think that if they had just said no in the right way then they might not have been attacked. But given the circumstances you described, and the words that Sherlock said, leads me to suspect that he may have been abused as a child as well as an adult. He does have a lot of the signs.”

A scowl. “If you know so much, then you go off and talk to Sherlock. I'm sure he'll appreciate your wonderful input.”

Still not willing to relent, but knowing when to bow out, she then stated “Fine. Sorry if I upset you.”

He shook his head. “No... I'm sorry. I've been really snappish for the last couple of days. You were right earlier. I shouldn't get mad at you when it's really Sebastian Wilkes I want to hurt.”

Sally noted the name. “Hope you do realize that I'm going to be on the lookout for anyone with that name who's accused of rape from now on. Maybe I can't bring this story up, but I sure as hell can keep it in mind if it becomes necessary.”

“It's not enough for me. I want that bastard to have the word ‘rapist’ marked on his body. I want people to know and _spit_ on him when they see him. I want him to lose his job, to never be able to go out to fancy restaurants and to _suffer_!” At the last word, John swept his arm out and sent the drink he had been staring at the whole time Sally had been speaking to him flying. The sound of broken glass seemed to have a negative impact on him: his shoulders slumped and he stood up slowly.

Taking a hint, Donovan decided to have a change in venue. “Why don't we go out.” John nodded and paid for his drink while apologizing for the broken glass. The two walked out into the night, and stood together without saying anything for some time.

Sally was the one who chose to break the ice first. “So... what exactly is the relationship between you and Sherlock, anyway?” She half expected John to tell her to piss off, but at the very least the awkward silence would be broken.

“One word: complicated.” He stuck his hands in his pockets and continued. “I'm still not sure what it is that he wants from me. I tried to gauge his interest by telling him it was fine if he had a boyfriend, but he said he was married to his work. Over the last few months, though, I've felt as if he was testing the waters a bit. Asking questions about how I felt when relationships ended or talking about how he understands that I need sex more often. Once, when I wound up going into the bathroom and caught him coming out of the shower, he just said that he was sorry I had to deal with such an unpleasant sight. At first I just thought he was mocking me, but now I'm wondering if he really can't see that he's one of the best-looking people, male or female, I've ever known.”

“If he were to make it clear that he wanted a relationship with you, would you seriously consider it?”

“Yes. I've known for a while now that I'm interested in both men and women. The problem isn't that Sherlock is a man - it's more along the lines of what his idea of a relationship is. Part of me still thinks that he believes that there's no trouble with being mistreated, that he doesn't have the same rights anyone else would. And then I start thinking that I'm reading too much into what he told me.”

Sally couldn't help it: she raised her arm up in the air. “Yes! Dimmock owes me ten pounds. He said there was no way that you'd be interested in Sherlock Holmes because you dated women. I pointed out you could be bi, because I've dated men and I'm bisexual, but he was adamant. Bet him for the most part to shut him up.” A pause. “If you'd rather no one knew, then that's fine. I'll just privately gloat, in that case.”

“To quote my earlier words to Sherlock: it's all fine. I don't really care what people say. Tell the world whatever you choose about me.” The unspoken words _but not him_ echoed between the doctor and the Yarder.

Sally nodded. They stood together once more.

John broke the silence this time. “I didn't realize the time. I'll have to get back to 221B before Sherlock starts thinking I've been kidnapped again. Oh, and Sally? Thank you. For listening, being open. It helped.”

She placed her hand on John's arm. “Even if Sherlock won't talk about it with anyone, I think you should. Get it off your chest a bit. You need it.”

“There's someone I talked with when I got back for my PTSD. I might give her a ring again and ask about my current issue. I still have the number. Good night, Sally. Be well.”

Sally stood and watched as John walked off until she could no longer see his back moving farther and farther away. She didn't go back in to the bar, but she felt that she couldn't just head to her flat either. There was something about all that she had learned, something about assumptions and experiences and how what one believes they see may be only a small portion of the whole, but for now she chose to gaze at the stars in the sky.

If she didn't get the whole picture of the universe within the time she spent, she could at least know that she was not alone.


	3. The Life of Sherlock Holmes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Please read the tags before reading this chapter.

 

When Sherlock Holmes is first born, it is nearly two months too early.

The pregnancy itself was a surprise to his parents. They already had the one child they sought to continue on with the family name. A second child was not in their plans. Especially not a scrawny little one who lingered on in hospital after his mother had left to see towards her duties as a lady of society. Both Siger and Marian visited the child, of course. They gave him a family name and tried to look as concerned as they could. Appearances had to be kept up, after all.

If Sherlock had been born one hundred years in the past, it would have been fine to simply leave him in the care of nannies until he could be sent away to school. In the 20th century, however, one had to take an active role in child rearing. So they visited, and hoped none would realize that the Holmes's were only going through the motions.

For their other son, Mycroft, Marian has worked out a plan. He is now seven, and his teachers all talk about how bright their boy is. So after talking with Siger, she hires a man by the name of Nathaniel Bradwell. He has experience in tutoring, is willing to live on their property, and will be available every day to instruct Mycroft in any subject he chooses. Nathaniel (never to be called Nate) is charming and polite to both Siger and Marian, and he might even be able to deal with Sherlock as he gets older. It is the perfect arrangement, and no one could ever say from that point onwards that the Holmes family does not care about their children.

(Of course, Nathaniel has his own plans, and Mycroft quickly grows to hate lessons, whether they be day or night.)

* * *

 

When Sherlock is two, his brother makes a deal.

Nathaniel has been a part of Mycroft's life for too long. Mycroft hates the touching, and the other things that hurt his belly and lower body, and he hates waiting at night to see if Nathaniel will arrive for more of the same things he does during the day. But it's only when the tutor begins to spend time listening to his brother talk about whatever subject he is focused upon at the moment, that Mycroft realizes something must be done.

So he approaches Nathaniel with a deal.

During the day, when he has lessons, Mycroft will come willingly and do whatever it is Nathaniel asks, no matter how uncomfortable. He will not say a word about how little to no actual instruction occurs during these lessons. At night, visits will be limited to three nights a week. His brother, as well as any other young person, will be left alone. When Mycroft leaves for school, Nathaniel may make an appearance every few weeks while he is away. On holidays, the plan will be exactly the same. The arrangement is to be ended when Mycroft turns eighteen or Nathaniel dies, whichever comes sooner.

Nathaniel shakes his hand, and agrees to his terms. The man knows that it's all meaningless, that it is too late to mold the unquestioning lover he has always sought, the person who will obey all of his demands and desires. The brother is too young for anything - entirely unappealing - but soon Sherlock will be older.

Then things will change.

* * *

 

When Sherlock is four, his lessons with Nathaniel begin.

He is at first excited. Sherlock knows that Daddy and Mummy don't like how he deals with people and says the wrong things, like telling Mummy's friend that her necklace wasn't really gold because he'd just read about how you could tell the difference, or talking about violin music with someone who doesn't really care (it's in their face, Sherlock, pay attention and you'll know). Mummy got mad when he wouldn't shake hands because touching people feels different to him, but Nathaniel doesn't mind. But in the first lesson, he has to sit on his teacher's lap, and then things get bad fast.

Touching was bad enough before, but the new kinds he's doing are really funny feeling. Nathaniel wants him to call him Mr. Bradwell when other people might be there, and makes Sherlock call him sir at other times. Some of the stuff they do _hurts_ , and there's blood sometimes (he says it will stop at some point). Other stuff just makes him feel bad or makes his tummy hurt, but it doesn't matter, because he's not normal, like his brother is. If he were normal the things wouldn't happen.

He tries to talk to Mummy, but she's busy with events and parties and other things. She tells him to “be normal”, tells him that all the time, so maybe she knows and thinks it's good. Daddy tells him to not talk to him until he can have an adult conversation, so Sherlock will wait to speak to him until he is an adult, because he can't have adult conversation when he is a kid.

There are two types of lessons, day and night. Day lessons mean that Sherlock might learn something new about the human body or chemical reactions or music (all the things he likes best) or even he might be asked to show off his observing skills. The bad stuff always happens sooner or later, but there can be good things as well.

Night lessons are just bad things. They happen in his room, when he is in bed. Sherlock hears the words “good boy” if he doesn't do anything to Mr. Bradwell, and doesn't let his teeth touch his penis, and he touches him until the sticky stuff comes out. But the really bad stuff, the stuff that hurts, just means noises and pain and sticky stuff and blood.

The day lessons happen every day, seven days a week, and the night lessons happen almost as often, although sometimes Mr. Bradwell doesn't show up in Sherlock's room at night.

After the lessons start, Sherlock begins to wet his bed at night. His parents are mad, because he never did that before, and he's just causing trouble, like when he said the sounds from the construction were making him upset (“learn to deal with it, Sherlock! The world will not cater to your whims!”), and why do they have to have a child who's a freak of nature, instead of a nice normal child like all their friends have.

A pattern is set. There is no escape.

* * *

 

When Sherlock is five, two events happen of equal importance: his brother goes away to school and he finds a dead squirrel.

He doesn't know what to think about his brother going away. Mycroft has always been there, and it feels _wrong_ to suddenly no longer be able to see him except on holidays. He wonders if he too will go away to school. Mummy says that he needs to learn to play properly with the other children before he can think about that, but try as Sherlock can he just can't master the rhythms of social interaction. He always says the wrong thing, or says it in the wrong tone, or the wrong way. He has no friends, and the other children call him Sherlock the odd. The only times he feels that he belongs is when he can answer the questions of his teacher. (School lessons mean you learn things, or that you are told to learn them; they are not like day or night lessons at all.)

One day, when Sherlock is home, he finds a squirrel lying in the garden. It is dead, but there are no tooth marks to be found on the body, so it doesn't look to have been killed by another animal. Sherlock also knows that it couldn't have fallen out of a tree since it wasn't anywhere near a tree. He thinks about his book on the human body, and how it shows all of the organs you have and how they work. Squirrels must have the same kind of parts, just smaller. If he were to look at the organs in a squirrel, it would be like looking at a human's organs - he could see what they look like inside.

Sherlock takes the squirrel in to the kitchen, and takes one of the smaller knives as well. The lungs are a red color, and if they were bigger he might be able to see the air pockets and chambers his book says are there. The brain won't come out because the skull is too hard, but the intestines are a lot longer than he thought.

Nathaniel walks in just as Sherlock is taking out the heart. He is told to dispose of the animal, and then they have a lesson.

Later that night, Marian and Siger are horrified to hear of the son torturing animals. Nathaniel says that he will stay to teach Sherlock, of course, but that it might be wise to find someone who can nip this problem in the bud.

* * *

 

When Sherlock is six, he sees three doctors.

The first doctor is a lady with curly hair. She asks him some funny questions, like what he would do if needed a ride to see a movie or showing him faces of people and asking him what the people were feeling. Dr. Harris doesn't get upset when Sherlock can't answer the questions, and she listens to him talking about bees for a whole half hour.

Mummy doesn't like her. She gets mad when the doctor tells her that Sherlock is likely autistic and can't interact with people in the same way that others do. Marian says that her son is not rocking in a corner somewhere, and he is intelligent, so there is no way he is brain-damaged. Sherlock has just fooled her.

The next doctor is a man. Dr. Moore listens to the story of the squirrel, and how Sherlock actually _set his bed on fire_ a month ago, and how he deliberately wets his bed every night, even after being toilet-trained.

(Sherlock knew the night lessons happened in his bed, so he thought that if the bed wasn't there, then the lessons might stop. It didn't work out that way- all that happened was Daddy telling him that he was going to go to prison if he did bad things like that again, and now Sherlock was afraid anytime he saw a police officer, because if they knew that the lessons were happening they would take him to jail, and he would never get out because he was bad.)

Dr. Moore didn't say that Sherlock was bad. He talked to the boy, trying to get him to open up, but when nothing came out of him he told Marian that the best course of action would be family therapy, since if Sherlock was this seriously disturbed now it meant there were problems. But that wasn't what she wanted to hear either, and so they left and never came back.

The final doctor talked to Mummy for a long time. He told he it wasn't her fault, and that she couldn't have known what would happen by having her son born too soon. He (for Sherlock never does learn the man's name) told her about how they were to have someone hold Sherlock just so until he could be let up, and that he could be a normal boy after some time of this. Without the treatment, the last doctor said, Sherlock would become a sociopath, incapable of any feelings but rage.

Mr. Bradwell is more than willing to administer the holding therapy when Siger or Marian cannot do so. It will take place after their lessons for the day.

(There are now two times in the day when bad things happen, and Sherlock's parents do not know why he screams so even before they begin to hold him. Touching was bad enough before the bad things, but now it's all bad, and he won't let anyone touch him, not ever again.)

His parents give up after three months. Nathaniel can keep on trying. Perhaps then Sherlock will at least be a high-functioning sociopath, as opposed to a demon child. Sherlock hears this many times over the next years of his life.

He takes it to heart, and never forgets it.

* * *

 

When Sherlock is seven, he begins to take violin lessons.

He'd wanted to for many years now - ever since Mummy had taken him to the symphony one day and he'd listened to the music. The sweet sounds of the violin players stayed in his head all day, and he asked many times if he could learn to play. One day, Daddy tells him he will be having lessons in the violin and to be nice to his teacher.

His teacher is a young woman by the name of Nkechi. Her family came from Nigeria, which she is more than happy to show Sherlock on a map. She doesn't mind that he asks her all kinds of questions about her home or her violin, which Nkechi says is a Stradivarius. That means it is a very high-quality instrument, and Sherlock feels honored to touch it.

Music lessons are more like school lessons than tutor lessons - Nkechi doesn't touch him, even to position Sherlock with the violin, after he says he does not like being touched. After a few months of lessons, Sherlock and Nkechi can play simple duets together. She is full of praise for his skills, and tells Sherlock that he will be very good indeed one day, to which Sherlock asks if that means he will be as good as she is, because Nkechi is the best musician he has ever heard. She laughs, and says “I certainly hope so!”

Shortly after that, Nkechi tells him she has sad news. She has gotten a position with an orchestra in the United States, and that she will be leaving soon. Sherlock cries and cries after hearing this - violin lessons were often the one bright spot in his day, after dealing with the casual cruelty of his peers or with his lessons with Mr. Bradwell. He hugs her, despite not normally wanting to be touched. This time, it is different, and Nkechi cries as well. She has grown to love the talented child she has taught, and she suspects that his life, even though it has all the trappings of privilege, is not a happy one.

On the day of the last lesson, she brings a surprise. It is a bulldog puppy. Sherlock is overjoyed at the little puppy that smells him and explores everything on the grounds of his home. He names the dog Archimedes, and thanks his teacher profusely.

(For a moment, he wonders if he should do the same things for her that he does for Mr. Bradwell during the day and night lessons. Sherlock chooses not to, and keeps his secrets for longer.)

Nkechi sends him more music over the years, and tells him to practice as much as he can. It's hard sometimes, with day lessons, but Sherlock always finds time.

After Nkechi leaves, it is darkness once more.

* * *

 

When Sherlock is nine, he tries to kill himself for the first time.

Life is all too much - lessons two or three times a day, Mummy and Daddy telling him what a horrid, abnormal child he is. He should be more like Mycroft- he has dozens of friends at school. (Mycroft's friends are all kept at arm's length, but he knows that even having friends will keep people from guessing his secrets.) His teachers do not understand why Sherlock is so withdrawn yet superior when asked to display his knowledge. Even his violin is no longer a solace.

Archimedes tries to make his master feel better. He does all his tricks, and growls at the mean man who comes into their room at night. All that does is banish the dog from the bedroom for good, moving his bed downstairs, away from Sherlock. Sherlock makes sure that he has a promise from his brother - “If something happened to me, would you look after my dog?” Mycroft promises he will. (Given what he was already giving up for Sherlock, taking care of a dog was nothing.)

Sherlock decides to burn himself after seeing a program on Vietnam and how protesters burned themselves. It looks like it will hurt, and that is what he wants.

Unfortunately, humans do not burn well. All that happens is his bed burns again and he burns his arm a bit.

Siger is furious this time. He decrees that Nathaniel will share a room with Sherlock until he can be sure he will not set any more fires. Marian bemoans that she did not keep going with the holding, and wishes it was not too late.

No one asks why, except when Sherlock gets his burn looked at. He tells the story he was told to tell - that he was playing with matches. Sherlock is terrified that he will not be believed, and he will be sent away to a place for bad people.

Mr. Bradwell tells him that only a freak would burn themselves on purpose. He says that it's more proof that Sherlock is depraved, and that what happens between them is a sign of how sick Sherlock truly is. “If you were like your brother...” is often stated during the lessons, either day or night.

Sherlock knows he is loathsome. He fears people will come to see that.

* * *

 

When Sherlock is ten, the very worst thing he could imagine happens.

He was coming home from school one day, and he was looking forward to playing with Archimedes before he has to go to his lessons. Normally the dog comes running over to see him right away, but there is no sign of his beloved dog.

Sherlock panics. He looks in as much of the house as he can, and when even his own observation skills cannot aid him in finding his dog he pushes his fears down and asks Mr. Bradwell if he has seen Archimedes. His tutor then says “Perhaps you should look outside.”

He does.

He finds Archimedes hanging from a tree. His leash is wrapped around his neck, and he's all _wrong_ , and Sherlock feels like he can't breathe.

Everything is wrong with the world. Everything.

(His parents are horrified to hear their son hung his dog. They vow never to get another pet, and if the question of why Archimedes was hung at Nathaniel's height and not Sherlock's ever comes up, it can then be deflected.)

Afterward, his parents refer to him as “freak.” Their child is a sociopath, and will not feel the little daggers that the word sends through normal people. Sherlock is marked for life.

Inside, he vows to never care for another living soul again. The pain is too great.

* * *

 

When Sherlock is eleven, he begins to take classes in chemistry.

If he was a normal child, and not a freak, he would be sent to the same public schools that Mycroft went to when he was Sherlock's age, but Marian and Siger will not put others at risk from their dangerous child. Besides, Nathaniel will assist him in gaining a quality education nonetheless.

(All Sherlock is supposed to have learned in his lessons came via his own effort. The pretense of learning anything has stopped long ago in even the day lessons, and now there is nothing but pain.)

What Sherlock likes about chemistry is both that he can do everything on his own, and that he can apply it to his most recent interest: crime and criminals. (If he's going to be a sociopath, Sherlock feels he should learn what one does.)

He starts to think of ways he can learn who commits crimes and how to tell when a crime has taken place. Sherlock is encouraged by his teacher to write down anything he thinks of that might be helpful, and is also told that he could do great things with that kind of work.

His parents shake their heads and tell Sherlock to not be such a freak and show the world what he is, because when there is trouble and he has caused it, they will not be there to help him out. Sherlock clearly cannot love them, so they feel no obligation to do anything for him in return. Not when their first-born is wowing all of his instructors at university and impressing important people. That is a child to love.

In one of his notebooks, Sherlock records everything he can about the death of Carl Powers. If later questions are raised about the Archimedes mentioned in the same volume, Sherlock will make an uncomfortable observation about whomever makes the statement.

It is better to be despised than loved, because hate causes no pain.

* * *

 

When Sherlock is twelve, he wakes up one morning feeling as if the world was his for the taking.

It's impossible to describe, the feeling. He gets up and starts working on his assignments that aren't due for several days, and when he's done with that he feels the need to clean his room. (The room is his alone again, even if the night lessons still go on.)

Everything is spotless and Sherlock still feels great, so he goes out for a walk. If he had money he would be spending it left and right, because there are so many things to get for people and Sherlock feels like he loves everyone, even Mr. Bradwell and the other students at school, and he wants to give them everything.

“Hello! Isn't it a great day! I love your shirt! Your wife is already aware you are leaving her, so don't be worried about telling her! That sandwich looks wonderful!” On and on the words come out. Sherlock accompanies his rapid speech with many gestures, and he finds himself taking a piece of food from another's plate.

It's all so wonderful, and he gets home and then starts writing about his wonderful day and he knows that all is well, and even day lessons leave him still feeling as if sadness or fear are beyond his reach.

The feeling lasts for three days. When those days are over, a horrid crushing sense of sorrow hits Sherlock harder than he could ever imagine.

What would be a beautiful day to all others is a reminder to Sherlock that he is unworthy of even breathing the same air as all of the non-freaks in the world. Mr. Bradwell tells him when he is forced to drag his body out of bed that the feeling is proof that he is not normal, that he deserves all that occurs during their lessons. “You feel guilty because you are a sociopathic freak, and will never have normal feelings. None of this would occur if you were normal.”

Sherlock hopes that when the sadness leaves nothing like that will ever happen again.

A few months later, the cycle begins anew.

(His mother tells him to stop manipulating people and acting to gain sympathy. Sherlock wonders if he were to walk out in traffic if anyone would care or if they would cheer his demise.)

* * *

 

When Sherlock is thirteen, he begins to hate his body.

It's bad enough that he's suddenly grown too tall, and his limbs feel too big to move, but there are soon other things that make his height seem like a small matter indeed.

He thought that he had gotten over wetting his bed some time ago, but when Sherlock starts waking up to messy sheets in the morning, he panics at first before realizing what is really going on. This doesn't make anything better for him, because the idea of doing things with anyone is so horrid that Sherlock can't ever imagine it. (The things he does with Mr. Bradwell are just something that must be done, and that will go on forever.)

But his body starts to like those sorts of things during lessons. He finds himself getting hard a good deal of the time, and at times he even comes. Mr. Bradwell says “That's further evidence that you are a freak. Why else would you like this? It's fortunate that no one else knows just how sick you are.”

And now when Sherlock looks in the mirror, he sees an ugly face marked by acne and features that add up to ugliness, no matter how one puts them together. He wonders if others can see his depravity when they notice him in public. It wouldn't be a horrid thing if they used him to satisfy the sexual desires he engenders in people, even while being so unattractive.

Unconsciously, Sherlock starts to wear clothing that conceals his body. He wears a coat even when it is not needed, because if people ignore him he is then safe.

(Mr. Bradwell is not affected, but he already knows about Sherlock's taint and is different than others in that regard.)

* * *

 

When Sherlock is fourteen, he finds a new way to cope with life.

He knows that he is not the only person who takes a blade to their skin when everything becomes too much to handle, but he never realized how it would feel to silence the thoughts that echo with _freak, no good, worthless_ inside his head. At first he goes with the standard method of taking a razor to his arms, but Sherlock soon realizes that cutting there leaves too many questions in the open.

The thighs are just as good a spot to cut in, as are the soles of his feet. No one can see the cuts there, and soon Sherlock starts to cut on his scalp as well, because it is easy to blame those on an accident.

There are other ways to hurt - a Bunsen burner can be used to burn exposed skin, as can the burners of a stove. Crashing into walls and furniture is good if one hits with enough force. Walking into traffic without looking doesn't provide any actual harm as of yet, but there is always the chance that one of the cars will hit him.

Food is not a prospect at first. When Sherlock is experiencing one of his upswings, he usually can't pay attention to any food for too long. During the down periods that come afterward, his appetite has gone away. But after a few months of using his new coping strategy, Sherlock begins to see how long he can go without.

The record he sets for not eating is nearly a week. It feels wonderful to deny himself all but water, and Sherlock knows that he is only giving himself what he deserves.

(Mr. Bradwell is the only one who can see the marks on his thighs, and tells him to write out the word freak so everyone will know what he is. Sherlock does, because he cannot do anything but what the man who has fully mastered him asks. He is the one who will do as he chooses with Sherlock, as long as he lives.)

* * *

 

When Sherlock is fifteen, he decides to kill himself again.

This time he chooses to cut his wrists. He already knows that he can cut his flesh, because he has done it so many times before. There really isn't a tipping point for why he wants to die- it's just a combination of everything in general. Sherlock knows no one will miss him. His parents are away on a trip (they leave more often now, leaving Sherlock alone with Mr. Bradwell. Then there is no safety to be found, and lessons can happen anytime.)

He shuts the door to the bathroom and takes the razor to each wrist. It's only after a few minutes that he begins to realize he might not have gotten it correct.

As it turns out, one needs to cut vertically in order to slit one's wrists properly, not horizontally. It doesn't matter, because Mycroft has shown up for a surprise visit. Sherlock feels jealous of his brother - he never had to deal with being a freak, having every single one of his peers despise him. Mycroft has made connections within the government, and it is likely that he will be a very important figure someday.

But Sherlock will not let his brother deal with the burden of finding him dead. Perhaps he will try again some other time.

* * *

 

When Sherlock is seventeen, he leaves for university.

He tries to make friends with the other students, but all of his attempts fail. Sherlock soon shifts gears and starts to point out all of the flaws of the others. He takes a certain degree of pride in telling two different women that Sebastian Wilkes is dating both of them at the same time. Sebastian is always cutting and cruel to him. He is also well-liked, and soon many others are putting down “the freak” as well. Sherlock is taunted when he eats meals with them, when he is in his classes (at least there he can show the others how astoundingly ignorant they are), and when they walk past him.

The only good thing now is that the lessons no longer happen every day. But Nathaniel (since Sherlock is grown now he may refer to his tutor by his name) still comes to see him twice a week. Sometimes he calls, other times he just shows up. At times they go out on “dates” when they eat in restaurants, but other times they just go back to Nathaniel's flat for sex. (When he leaves uni, he will move in with Nathaniel. Then he will revert to the old pattern.)

Sherlock is relieved that his nights, at the very least, are his own.

But one night less than two months into uni, Sebastian enters his room unwanted. After that, his nights are back to normal.

The very worst times are when Sherlock has “dates” with Nathaniel that are followed up later with a visit from Sebastian.

Yet Sherlock feels a bit of pity for Sebastian. He would certainly feel horrid if he learned how much Sherlock disliked sex. In fact, he knew that if were to say no that then it would be a terrible thing if Sebastian did not stop after that. Right now it was all on Sherlock to take charge of things.

The entire time he is there, the word never crosses his lips.

* * *

 

When Sherlock is eighteen, he finds two new friends: cocaine and morphine.

He is virtually ordered by Father and Mummy to start to deal with his peers more often. While it is good that he is making an effort to be friendly with his old tutor, Sherlock must learn to be social. So he starts going to parties.

At one of the parties he is shown three lines of white powder. After Sherlock takes them, he finds that he feels just as good as he does during one of his high episodes. And when he learns that the come-down is far less time than after his highs, he begins to use.

Sherlock starts off by snorting, but after a brief period of time he goes on to injecting. He would say if he is asked that it gets in his system faster that way, but deep down he knows it's because that this way he can cause himself more pain.

Three months after he starts using cocaine, Sherlock has a brilliant idea. If using cocaine helps with his black moods, then if he manages to find some depressant to use he can control his high states as well. During the last one, he managed to spend over a thousand pounds in less than a day. He hates having to go ask his parents for money. (They give it each time, but the disapproval is quite clear. And Sherlock still hopes that one day he will make them happy.) The first drug he gets his hands on is morphine.

A new pattern begins. Now if Sherlock feels a mood coming on, he then takes the appropriate drug to combat it. He is a master at injecting himself discreetly and hiding the fact he has been using.

Outside of his moods, the only time Sherlock uses is before he meets Nathaniel. The drugs make even sex tolerable.

* * *

 

When Sherlock is nineteen, Nathaniel is killed in an accident.

He is shocked. Somehow he thought that the man would live as long as Sherlock did, the two of them bound in some mysterious manner. To hear that the mightiest person he has known has died because he fell asleep behind the wheel is a blow to the fabric of the universe.

Mycroft refuses to come for the funeral. Mummy is not pleased - she already did not approve of her eldest stating that he was gay when he was 22. Now she cannot comprehend why her good child is rebelling. “Sherlock is a sociopath, and even he will be there!” But his brother does not arrive.

The funeral is somber, with both Marian and Siger praising Nathaniel Bradwell to the heavens. He should have been a saint for putting up with Sherlock for so long. He made Mycroft into a man of learning beyond what could be expected. Everyone loved him.

Sherlock finds himself self-harming even more frequently in the weeks afterward. He starts to use even if he is not experiencing a mood. The one person who knew him as he was is gone, and everything else is a lie. Sebastian's night time visits lose any feeling attached to them. He is going through the motions like a zombie.

His schoolwork does not decline all that much, but his instructors ask him again and again if something is disturbing him. Sherlock uses all of his acerbic tendencies to push them away as well, and after a period of time they cease to ask him anything.

Only his dealer appears, because now Sherlock is visiting him every week for more drugs.

Sherlock loses weight, and begins to take on a skeletal appearance. He knows he is lost.

At one point, he finds himself in a church. For whatever reason, he goes to speak to the pastor. He doesn't tell him everything, but he does share more than he ever has. Sherlock fully expects the man to tell him that God is disgusted by him as well, and with that there will truly be no hope for him.

Instead, the priest says “One day, I hope you will share this with someone who cares for you. I think that God is weeping for how much you have suffered in your short life.”

Sherlock flees into the night. He's not ready to hear that yet.

* * *

 

When Sherlock is twenty-one, his parents both die within a few months of each other.

Siger is first – a heart attack is the cause. Marian follows several months afterward. No matter what one could say about what the two elder Holmes's thought of their children, they clearly were in love with each other. Sherlock is uncertain of what he thinks of the deaths of his parents. He is a sociopath, after all, and any sadness that he may feel is clearly the result of manipulation on his own behalf.

The immediate problem that presents itself to Sherlock is that he has been cut off from his source of income. Even though he has tried to obtain a job, either with the police or involving chemistry in some manner, he has never kept one for more than three months. Sometimes it is because of his moods, other times it is due to his drug use, and there are time when he makes a pointed observation about someone who does not want to hear it. The small amount of money his parents left him is soon dried up (almost all of it to drugs, which have become the most important thing in the world to him).

Mycroft, whom was the one who actually got all of the money in their family, won't give Sherlock any kind of assistance unless he gets off the drugs. To Sherlock, he might as well ask him to become a productive citizen who never argues or get in trouble with anyone at all.

After he exhausts his “credit” with his dealer, Sherlock nearly goes through with giving in to his brother until the dealer offers him another choice. His money isn't the only thing he can give in exchange for goods - a service would work just as well.

At first it is just blow jobs, and then Sherlock starts allowing himself to be fucked by the man. Soon afterward he wants his friends to have a turn as well, and then finally Sherlock is told that he needs to bring in money for the drugs he had gotten for “free” in the time prior. So now it has come to strangers who want him on his knees or back or all fours, and even some who want to just plain talk to him, either with or without sex.

Condoms are used every time, because getting AIDS from a client would be a bad thing for business, as it is said.

One night, after having to service not only his dealer but two of his friends as well for hours and hours, Sherlock decides to die again. He takes the drugs that have been left behind and calculates what he believes will be enough for an overdose. He injects himself, and while he loses consciousness he thinks of how he is certain to be punished for this.

He wakes up the next day in a pool of his own vomit. Even death has said that he is not worthy.

* * *

 

When Sherlock is twenty-three, he is arrested for the first time.

He has always been afraid of this – if his brother was to know what he was doing to get his money, he would certainly wash his hands of him. The only times Sherlock sees Mycroft are holidays and occasional lunches, when his brother sends a car to him and they have a tension-filled meal.

(Mycroft is angry Sherlock does not know what he sacrificed for him. Sherlock thinks that Mycroft must not know what a truly horrid child he was. The silence keeps them both apart.)

One of the officers appears to be surprised at seeing someone like Sherlock in such dire straits. “You have a degree, you come from a good deal of money, you are clearly intelligent -” for Sherlock had not only told both of the officers who picked him up everything about their lives, as well as solving two crimes that he had just read the notes on a desk about - “and yet here you are, prostituting yourself and living in a flat in one of the more dangerous spots in London. What's gotten you down this road?”

“I need drug money,” is the answer Sherlock gives. He cannot talk about the mood swings, or the ever-present feelings that he is nothing but a worthless freak, or the fact that he still thinks about either his lessons or Sebastian years later. (Some clients will not go further when Sherlock slips into the past in front of their very eyes. Others do not care as long as they get off, and a few even enjoy seeing Sherlock revert to a near catatonic state during sex, especially if he cries the two-letter word that was never uttered before in the past.)

The explanation suffices, and when Sherlock finally goes before a judge he gets off with a fine and a warning to not be found soliciting again. The judge says that rehab would have been ordered as well, but Sherlock's drug tests between his arrests and now have come back all clean, so there is no reason to do so.

Sherlock is relieved, and he celebrates by shooting up that night. Of course, he will no longer work the streets. His dealer (now his pimp as well) will bring clients to him.

If they happen to be interested in more violent, degrading sex than that what Sherlock has gotten on his own – well, then, he shouldn't have got himself in trouble like that now, should he?

* * *

 

When Sherlock is twenty-four, he moves to the United States.

His dealer died of an overdose only two weeks prior to the move. Sherlock suddenly found himself free, with a rather large supply of drugs on hand. He kept the ones he would use and sold the ones that he had no interest in trying. After Sherlock then had gotten a larger supply of money than he had had in many years, he went on an upswing.

Going to Florida was one of those things that seemed like a good idea when he first did it. Actually making it there was another thing. Sherlock soon found himself with only a few dollars in his pocket and no place to go or stay.

If it had not been for the exuberant man who walked past him in a restaurant where Sherlock had stopped to get something with his last dollars, Sherlock would have been forced to deal with his brother in order to get home. The man – a Mr. Hudson – tells Sherlock that he is looking for a boarder in the building he and his wife own. And hearing the voice of a man who was from the same place his Martha was, well, then that was an extraordinary burst of good luck.

Officially, Sherlock is a handyman in exchange for room and board. In reality, he doesn't need to do much but talk with Mrs. Hudson most days. She says that Sherlock is moody just like her husband, and she talks about England and how she thinks about going back someday. She also wishes that Larry would stop going on those trips when he sometimes got into a mood, even if he does give her some nice jewelry after.

To Sherlock, the words are a jolt of energy. He starts to study Mr. Hudson and figure out where he goes. As he looks into what goes on in the places he travels, he then finds a string of murders. Evidence is gathered from the crime scene photos Sherlock manages to get a hold of, and soon Larry Hudson is charged with multiple counts of murder.

Sherlock is thrilled. He does have to stick around so he can testify at the trial of course ( _and it's back to the same work, of course, because his drugs have run out and he's too worthless to get a real job and the police don't want his help and he's showering three times a day now and rubbing dirt into his injection sites so they will get infected)_ but he does have work and a place to stay. He's surprised that Mrs. Hudson appears to want to talk with her husband's lawyers – the man had not only cheated on her, but had left a body under some property that she owned (and that the police were going to question her about until her husband's arrest) and was still married to someone else in Iowa. She talks about loving a person, but Sherlock thinks that people are just deluding themselves when they speak of love.

At the trial itself, things are fine until one of the witnesses for the defense comes to the stand. The rather jolly-looking man talks about mood swings ( _just like you_ , Sherlock's mind tells him) and when he starts talking about Larry Hudson's past Sherlock can only think of lessons and the word freak. He can't breathe, and it gets worse when Sherlock looks at the jurors and realizes they don't care, that none of this data will change anything for their inevitable verdict of death.

Sherlock knows now that he is a murderer as well. He has become what his parent had said he was to be as a child.

Mrs. Hudson gets home that day to find Sherlock with his head in the oven. She turns off the stove and helps him to bed.

When the two parties have returned to England, Mrs. Hudson tells Sherlock that she will be living in her family's old place on Baker Street. She says to call her if Sherlock needs a place to live.

He doesn't call. He will not taint a good woman with his presence.

* * *

 

When Sherlock is twenty-six, he enters rehab.

He had taken some morphine prior to jumping off the roof of a building. It was only a three-story fall, so the worst he winds up with is a broken leg. But Mycroft comes to him while he is in hospital and calmly tells his brother that he will be entering a private rehabilitation center when he is well enough to leave.

The withdrawal is pure agony. Sherlock is dimly aware of the people who help him when his body rebels against even water, and he thinks that he may have pleaded for something for the pain inside him. But the memories are fogged up.

After he begins to feel more human, Sherlock is then required to attend group sessions. He doesn't say much, and he hopes that Mycroft is not getting reports saying he is not cooperating.

During the sessions, people are encouraged to talk about their lives and how they got to where they are now. For some of them, it was because of their own lessons. And when they speak about such things, there is sympathy and understanding. It was not their fault.

Sherlock tries to stay, he does, but all of the feelings come crashing down on him and he gets up and walks out of the group.

He's discharged a few days later. The staff would like him to stay longer, but Sherlock has completed the basic program and is free to go.

He's vowed to stop using the morphine. The high episodes aren't really all that bad, but he still needs the cocaine.

Mycroft gives him a bank account with a small sum of money when he gets out. It keeps Sherlock going without having to look for clients. He starts to speak with the police about unsolved crimes.

Life is a little brighter.

* * *

 

When Sherlock is twenty-eight, he quits drugs.

After having shown up to crime scenes high one time too many, he is given an ultimatum by D.I. Lestrade: either he will get off the cocaine or he will no longer be permitted to work with the police. This time, Sherlock chooses to go of his own free will.

The rehabilitation center is different this time around. Instead of group sessions Sherlock meets with a counselor one on one. He is questioned as to his feelings surrounding his drug use. Again and again, he explains that he is a sociopath and does not have feelings the same way that other people do. Medication is prescribed, but Sherlock will not take it. Part of him feels that his mind will be taken away by the pills, and then he will be ordinary. Another, smaller part, is afraid that the pills will do nothing and Sherlock will then afterward find himself caught within his mood swings for the rest of his life.

Stopping using cocaine is physically less taxing on Sherlock. When a month has passed, he leaves the center.

Inside his flat Sherlock still keeps a small supply of his drugs of choice. He knows that one day the moods and the feelings of worthlessness when he is not solving a case may come and overwhelm him beyond what he can handle. Upon leaving the second center, Sherlock is told that he should seek counseling so that he will continue to be clean. But the thought of having to talk to someone who will then inform him that he is depraved and sick and perhaps shouldn't even be out amongst normal people is too hard to cope with.

He's hanging on the edge of sobriety. When he falls off one day, everything Sherlock has put together will then fall apart.

* * *

 

When Sherlock is thirty, he appears to have his life in perfect order.

He is known as a consulting detective to the London police. Whenever there is a crime that seems to be difficult or baffles them, Sherlock will always be there to offer his observations, as well as his stinging retorts as to the stupidity of the Yard.

( _as long as he keeps them away he won't be hurt again_ )

Sherlock has also developed a network of people who will be able to assist him in solving crimes. Some of them come from those he has cleared from all sorts of charges, and they are grateful to him for their freedom. Others are those who either live or find themselves spending time in the streets. Gifts of food and clothing, as well as anything else that might be appreciated by the recipients. Sherlock has been given half of the money his parents left Mycroft, which would amount to a non-negligible sum even if Sherlock never took another case.

He doesn't just do cases for the Yard anymore. He gets letters from people who want him to solve any kind of problem that arises in their lives, from missing jewelry to cheating spouses. Because of that, Sherlock gains more and more of a reputation and gets more cases.

( _he's still worthless no matter how many crimes he solves_ )

He wears a long coat well after the season for wearing one is over. When Sherlock hears a passer-by on the street talk about how good-looking his neck is, he adds a series of scarves as well. The coat is a protective shield, to keep all eyes off him.

( _you're ugly but still good for a lay, says the man to him as Sherlock shuts his eyes tightly_ )

His recklessness is well known by most people. Sherlock throws himself into danger at the drop of a hat, goes for days without eating or sleeping, and he will race into oncoming traffic. The fact that he winds up with injuries doesn't really surprise anyone.

( _even if he were to cut in front of everyone they still wouldn't care it's what he deserves_ )

To any outside observer, Sherlock Holmes has a perfect life.

And he hates everything about himself but his deducting abilities.

( _one day people will learn to do what he does and then he will truly be worthless_ )

The drugs are still a lure. Sherlock uses the knife or flame whenever he gets the urge to use. One day, he knows, it will not be enough.

* * *

 

When Sherlock Holmes is thirty-two, he meets John Watson.

He doesn't know it, but his life is about to change.


	4. A Tale of Two Flatmates

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Both John and Sherlock think about the other.

 

When the door of his bedroom was securely locked, Sherlock Holmes only then could allow himself time to think upon the problem that had been disturbing him for the last week.

Namely, why on earth John Watson was still living with him after nearly a year.

At first the reason for John choosing to live with such a horrendous example of a human being was obvious even to a moron like Anderson. The doctor did not have enough money to afford a flat of his own, and Sherlock could pay for the lion's share of 221B. But now John had a job, and his bank account was growing more and more each day. He could live wherever he wished. So why did he stay with Sherlock?

Sherlock knew that he was one of the worst flatmates in all of London. His experiments, while they were fascinating to him, were a source of disgust to others. (People, for the most part, could not understand science. Bad-smelling chemicals and body parts could teach quite a bit even to the ignorant, but it seemed that the majority of people only saw the revolting aspects. It was a pity.) His moods would try the patience of even saints, and Sherlock knew that John was hardly a saint. John knew that he was a former drug user ( _but he didn't know how he got the drugs and if he knew he would call him a whore_ ). In short, there was nothing about Sherlock that was worth living with. So why was John still there?

The only reason Sherlock could think of involved John desiring his body. It was impossible that John saw him as physically attractive – he was too scrawny, with scars on his legs and torso, not to mention his shockingly ugly facial features. But wanting sex seemed to be a reasonable thing. Sherlock knew that there had been many people in the past who had seen him as good for sex, and that even now people on the street would turn to look at him. They must have seen something that let them know he was someone you could use sexually. Even with the coat and scarf, the stares still came from time to time.

The part that Sherlock had yet to deduce was why John had not simply taken what he desired from him. His door was locked at night, so John couldn't get to him then, but there were many other times when he could act.

John had had a prime chance two months ago. He hadn't been paying attention to what was going on one morning, and had accidentally walked in on Sherlock when he was leaving the shower. John had just said, “Sorry, sorry,” and had closed the door behind him. Sherlock had later said he was sorry as well. After all, John did not deserve to see such a hideous sight, as he was naked. The apology had been accepted, but Sherlock wondered if John had been more disturbed than he let on. The evidence indicated such: John had been very quiet for the rest of the day, and had suggested that Sherlock go to visit the morgue the next day. Molly had been fairly amiable, considering what had happened with Jim and her rather strange crush.

(It was a pity that Molly felt the man who worthy of her was happened to be one as unworthy as him. He hoped that she would come to her senses soon.)

Sherlock had not thought about John behaving strangely until he left (and nearly crashed into Sally Donovan, who had snidely told him she was here to inquire about a recent body found). Seeing an annoyed Sally made him wonder why John had been so kind to him. Why wasn't he saying crude things about Sherlock's body or talking about how he would be good in bed?

Even now, John appeared to not realize what he could do. During meals, when they were watching various asinine programs – people were so foolish, cluttering up their heads with all kinds of useless information that was imparted via them - , when the two men went out to Angelo's, and most surprising of all, when Sherlock was unable to leave the couch because his mood had dragged him so low he could barely make the effort to breathe. At none of those times had John even made a vaguely sexual remark, let alone fucked him.

The answer couldn't be that John didn't like men, because within a few days of meeting him Sherlock had known he was bisexual. Not that that necessarily made a difference, because Sebastian had frequently made degrading remarks about gays and he still had slept with Sherlock many times. John wasn't dating Sarah anymore, so it couldn't have been that he was reluctant to cheat on his partner, even if sleeping with Sherlock didn't really count the same way.

The only thing that Sherlock could think of was that John must be so repulsed by him that he didn't want to taint himself by using his flatmate. Even without knowing about his lessons or how Sherlock had gotten his drugs, John still felt disgust at what Sherlock was. It was for the best in that case – if John had felt that way by just seeing Sherlock and hearing about Sebastian, then if he had learned anything else he was likely to be one of the ones who was violent in bed and left Sherlock bruised afterward.

Of course, there still were problems with this theory. It still didn't explain why John was still living with him after all this time. If he felt so disgusted, then Sherlock knew that the most logical outcome would be for John to leave. And yet he stayed.

He tried to see what might be going on inside John’s head. Sherlock asked him how he felt when relationships ended, to see if maybe breaking up with Sarah had killed his desire. The response was that it was hard at times, but that at other occasions it was for the best. That hadn’t really made anything clearer, because Sherlock didn’t know how John then felt about sex after a relationship.

The second question Sherlock had pressed John on was his need for sex. He could tell that John was touching himself ( _it wasn’t like lessons and John liked it so it was good even if Sherlock felt sick_ ), so he did want some kind of physical connection. But still nothing happened, even after Sherlock told John that he understood his need for sex. Yet this did not cause him to make any moves. Instead, on one occasion John had gone out to a bar with the excuse he was meeting a friend there. (Obviously lying, he returned home far too early than he had when genuinely meeting friends.)

The very worst part of the situation was the waiting. Sherlock did not know when (or if) John was going to do something to him. Every day that passed without John touching ( _hurting hurting it wouldn't stop too much pain_ ) him increased the level of Sherlock's fear. He knew that he was safe in his room because the door was always locked, but he couldn't stay there forever.

The risk could be minimized by not taking John on cases any more, but then he might wonder why Sherlock no longer wanted him around. He might even move out, and Sherlock knew that even if John was the roughest, most brutal partner that he had ever had he still would not want him to go. Losing his only friend was a much greater price than some bruises and blood.

And so Sherlock waited. One day, John would know what he was and act accordingly. The question was when.

* * *

 

John Watson needed to think.

He had earlier been watching telly with Mrs. Hudson, but now she was writing a letter to her friend in the U.S and John then went up to his room to think on how odd Sherlock had been behaving lately.

He supposed that it wasn't too strange that Sherlock wanted to know how someone felt if their relationship ended. The other man's experience with relationships was, at least as far as John knew, non-existent. Sherlock might feel that learning how people react to that event might be a help to him in solving cases, especially since love in its many forms could often lead to trouble. Another person would likely be able to draw on their own experiences, but Sherlock needed to rely on others. It still seemed odd, if only because Sherlock had looked no less confused after John said he felt it was sometimes for the best.

It was really the second thing that stood out clearly. Sherlock had lately taken to telling John that he understood that John needed sex, and that he knew what measures John might have to take. The statement had been so strange that John hadn't even given Sherlock an answer. Was he trying to tell John he should have one-night stands? That he should hire a prostitute? That he should…

John's thoughts trailed off. He knew what was really bothering him was the conversation he had had with Sally a week ago. He was trying to find out if there was any evidence that what she thought was true. And he didn't like what he was seeing. Sherlock wore his coat even when it was not needed, did not allow people to touch him, and there was the whole situation with Sebastian he had told John. Nothing was definite, but John was beginning to realize that he could no longer dismiss the idea that Sherlock had been abused sexually as a child.

But if that was true, then who had hurt him? He considered the idea it was Mycroft due to the feud between the brothers – but if that were the case, then John tended to think that Sherlock would have acted more like he had when they had met Sebastian during the bank case. Sherlock was his usual abrasive self with his brother, so John doubted it had been Mycroft. But he couldn't rule it out entirely.

The most likely answer was that it had been someone who was close to the Holmes family, if not a family member themselves. If John was correct in his hypothesis, that was.

Suddenly John found himself thinking of the time he had come home to find Sherlock had burned himself. When he had left for the clinic, the detective had been lying on the couch staring at the wall. He wasn't sure if he really wanted to leave Sherlock when he was quite clearly so depressed, but John felt that Sherlock was unlikely to do anything dangerous. During the dark moods, Sherlock rarely was able to do anything but leave his room to lie on the couch. So it had been a surprise for Sherlock to greet him when he got home. Even more unusual, he was playing his violin. The surreality of the scene was broken when John noticed a red patch on Sherlock's arm. “What happened to you?”

“A small accident with a Bunsen burner. Nothing to concern yourself with.”

John's blood ran cold. Sherlock never did any experiments when he had a day on the couch. Why was he lying to him? “I should take a look at it,” he had managed to say.

The entire time John was treating the burn, Sherlock kept making remarks about how the fuss was entirely unnecessary. “Really, John, you have to have learned in med school what a serious burn looks like. I know you aren't a fool like most other medical professionals, so don't concern yourself. If you must, treat my arm, but I always thought you had more sense than that.” John was good at filtering out Sherlock's defensive barriers he put up when someone tried to show compassion, so he could work without getting angry. He noticed the lack of other marks on Sherlock's arm, but that did not make him feel that his flatmate was not deliberately harming himself. From that day onwards, John decided to try and stay in if Sherlock fell into one of his depressed moods.

It wasn't really proof – after all, the depressive episodes in and of themselves could lead to self-harm even if Sherlock had had a perfectly lovely life otherwise. But there was one other incident that John found himself looking at in a new light. During an investigation of the thefts of jewelry of three cousins, a witness to one of the thefts turned up. The man was ordinary in all ways, except for the somewhat subdued manner Sherlock had spoken to him. And then, as the detective finished his questioning, the man had reached out and caressed Sherlock's rear. It happened so fast that John had thought that he must have imagined it, because if the man had done what he thought Sherlock would have made a fuss over it. He did ask Sherlock if he knew the man and received a rather vague response about him being a former client. Had he been the one who hurt Sherlock? It was unlikely, because if John had to guess the witness had been a few years older than Sherlock at most.

And now, John felt that the flat was filling up with words he dared not say for fear of pushing away the man who he lov – who was his friend, and that he had relied on so much after leaving Afghanistan. That would be a price far too high to pay for gaining the answers to his questions.


	5. Dinner and Secrets

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which dinner leads to some of the Holmes' brothers secrets coming to light.

 

“Are we going to have to get all dressed up for when Mr. Holmes comes over for dinner?”

Gregory Lestrade looked away from the vegetables he was chopping up to his oldest son, Darcus. “I don't think so. This is supposed to be a chance for him to get to know you and your brother and sisters, not some fancy occasion.”

A grin came on to Darcus's face. “Good.” Like most ten year-olds, Darcus Lestrade was happiest wearing casual clothes. Hearing that his father was inviting his new boyfriend over for dinner led him to want to make a good impression, but that impression would be hampered if he had to wear fancy clothing. “Is there anything I can do to help you?”

“Yes, you can start by peeling those potatoes.”

Just as Greg finished his sentence, the door flung open. “Dad! I'm back!” His oldest daughter Alice had been at football practice for most of the afternoon, and he hadn't known when she would get in. Depending on how much the team needed to work, Alice could come home anywhere between three and four hours after she left school.

Alice Lestrade looked very much similar to her mother Nia – the same mahogany-colored skin, thick curly hair (which at times sent a pang of sorrow through her father, as he remembered how he had loved running his fingers in Nia's hair), and only her gray eyes marking a feature Greg felt that his family had brought. At twelve, his daughter was old enough to take on some responsibilities at home, but even without her mother to take some of the load, Greg Lestrade wanted to make certain Alice enjoyed childhood for as long as she could.

“Dinner smells great. What are we having?”

“A roast, with carrots and potatoes. There's spinach salad in the refrigerator, and if you want to help out you can get started on your mother's recipe for plain cake.”

His daughter grinned. “I love mum's plain cake.” Alice paused, as if she had just thought of something. “Where are Leo and Kayla? Are they not eating with us tonight?”

“I've got them watching a movie in my room. Darcus has promised to get them to wash up before dinner.” At seven and five, Leo and Kayla weren't really old enough to help out with any of the dinner Greg was working on now, although they had helped a few hours ago by getting the salad together. Both of his youngest had promised to be on their best behavior for the dinner. Greg knew that out of all of his children, it was Kayla and Leo who most missed their mother. He hoped they would not see Mycroft Holmes as any kind of threat to Nia's memory.

In fact, it had only been six months ago that the two men had had the chance to meet. Lestrade had known that Sherlock had an older brother, but he had certainly not expected to run into a man holding an umbrella while he was going to pick up some take-away for his family.

“Gregory Lestrade. A pleasure to finally meet you in person.” The man had a smile on his face, and radiated an aura of absolute authority.

“Excuse me? I've never seen you before in my life, so don't go around acting as if we've been waiting to meet up. Tell me who you are and what you want before I go and get some of my men out here.”

At Greg's words, the man frowned. “Forgive me. I thought that my brother would warn you that I wished to speak with you sometime soon. I'm Mycroft Holmes, Sherlock's older brother. You are Gregory Lestrade, D.I. for the London police. You received the position almost four years ago. You're forty-three years old, and married Nia Thompson when you were twenty-seven. Your wife worked as a civil engineer for the city of London, which is how the two of you met. The two of you have four children – Alice, Darcus, Leo, and Kayla. Alice is the eldest and loves football. Darcus is the top student in maths at his school. Leo enjoys working with clay, and you plan on enrolling him in pottery classes soon. Kayla is the baby of the family and has a great fondness for cats – she was thrilled when you were given three kittens as a gift. You go on holiday in Barbados several times a year, both to see your wife's family and because you feel it is a beautiful place.” He paused, and then continued, “And your wife died of an aneurysm eighteen months ago. You only recently removed your wedding ring and have not been on any dates since, and all women who have expressed interest have learned that you are still deeply in love with your wife.”

If Greg had not already been well acquainted with Sherlock's own habit of making all kinds of observations about people, he would have been afraid that the other man was stalking him. But with his experience in dealing with the detective's methods, he had a fair idea of what might have shown this Mycroft Holmes his life. “Very good. You've been paying attention. And I believe that I can tell exactly how you came about this knowledge.”

A slight smile came on the other man's face. “Please do.”

Lestrade began. “My becoming D.I. was in the papers, and you look to be the sort of man who reads the paper every day. Nia was mentioned in the same article, and if you keep up with the affairs of London then you would have noticed her name in the projects she was involved in, and realized that the woman mentioned in the article was the same as the engineer. The length of time we were married is easy to tell by my finger where I used to wear my ring, and I still feel for it from time to time, so that's how you knew that I only took it off recently. As for knowing about Nia's death, the funeral was widely attended because of how many people we knew through our work. You yourself may have been there, even though I don't recall seeing you. So you know both that I've been widowed and when it was my wife died. The lack of interest in other women is fairly clear by my having worn the ring for so long afterward, and I still have a picture of Nia in my car. So she still means a great deal to me.”

Mycroft nodded, looking impressed. “Very good. My brother's methods are rubbing off on you. But how did I know about your children and where your wife's family lived?”

“The football in the back seat means that I have a child who plays the sport. There are league tables somewhere back there as well, and they are for girls between eleven and thirteen, which means that the football player is my oldest daughter. There's also a flier back there talking about art classes, and I've circled one of the listings for a pottery class. Once again, the age range indicates that my younger son is the one who will be joining such a class. As for Darcus, he has been the top student in maths so many times that he recently received an award for achievement, and I have the article that talks about it on the front seat. You also likely read the article, because as I noticed earlier you read the papers every day. As for the cats, I can guess that I have some hairs on my trousers from where they were sitting, and there may be a few claw marks as well, which judging by the size show that the cats are still young, and the fact that I have a large bag of their food in the car means more than one cat. Hanging from my mirror is a wire cat that was made by my youngest child, due to the size of the knots tied in place, which means that a very young child made it, and my youngest fits the bill. I have a Barbados flag on my bumper, which means I have some ties there. A reasonable guess would be that my wife has family there.” Greg paused to take a breath. “About the only thing you didn't mention was that I am an utter slob in my car, because I have to take my children everywhere and usually don't want to clean.”

The same trace of a smile came on Mycroft's face. “Clearly you are more observant than the average man. You are correct in everything.”

Greg decided at this point to cut directly to the issue at hand. “Now that we've gotten some of this stuff out of the way, would you please mind telling me what exactly you want from me. If this is about your brother, I can say I've seen no signs he's gone back to his old habits, so in regards to that you have nothing to worry about.”

Mycroft looked uncomfortable for the first time since the conversation had begun. “I have no doubt that Sherlock is clean. What I was more concerned about was how he was faring in other aspects of his life. Being the man who works with him to the largest extent, I believe you could help me answer the questions I have.”

That had thrown Greg for a loop. He stood awkwardly trying to respond for a minute before coming out with “I'm glad to help you, but only under two conditions. First, we go somewhere private to talk, because I have no intentions of risking anyone else hearing us talk about personal issues. Second, if you want to compensate me for giving you this information, not only will I refuse to speak with you, I will also tell your brother about this meeting and do whatever it takes to keep you from speaking to any of my other men on the force. Well?”

Mycroft appeared unfazed. “Your terms are acceptable. How about we meet for dinner on Friday night? I can get reservations to any restaurant you would like, and we would be guaranteed privacy. Shall I put in a call?”

Amazingly, that had been the build up to Greg's first date with Mycroft, even if he hadn't realized it at the time.

. The dinner had gone well, even if the restaurant was more formal than the DI was used to. He had even received a point of clarification in regards to one of Sherlock's more baffling comments. Ever since he had first met Sherlock Holmes, the man had referred to himself as a “high-functioning sociopath.” This made absolutely no sense to Greg, because he had experience dealing with a good deal of criminal types who fit the bill far more than Sherlock did, and he asked Mycroft what that was all about.

“A misdiagnosis from when Sherlock was a child,” the other Holmes explained. “He is more likely to have shown his bipolar disorder from a young age. That would explain some of his odd behaviors with other people, and why he often seemed to cause so much trouble with authority figures. He was always high-spirited, and in addition Sherlock showed signs of his intellect early on. The other behaviors were not part of a pattern – the fire could have happened through childish carelessness or an experiment gone wrong. I remember helping him with all kinds of experiments during holidays when we were younger. He didn't hate me so much then.” There was a sigh from the government official.

Greg frowned. “Has Sherlock taken any medication for his condition? Has any even been prescribed?”

“Yes, when he was in rehab the second time. Sherlock wasn't compliant with taking it even in treatment, and he never followed through after leaving. My brother, as you well know, is quite stubborn when he wants to be.”

Despite the plans for dinner involving how Sherlock was doing in the eyes of Greg, for the rest of the meal the only topics of conversation were Mycroft's job - “a minor position in the British government, nothing exceptional, Gregory” - to the Lestrade children - “with my job being what it is, I can't spend as much time with them as I really want to. And that hurts, because I want to see them grow up” - and finally to the lack of success both men had in their personal lives. Mycroft seemed nervous when he admitted to being gay, as if he was afraid of Greg's reaction, but the DI laughed and said he was bisexual himself.

“Did your wife know?”

“Nia? Of course she did. She liked that we could watch a movie together and then both go on about how hot the actors in the film were.”

The dinner went so well, in fact, that Mycroft asked Greg afterward if he wanted to repeat the event next week with a lunch. Greg accepted, and during the entire meal Sherlock's name did not come up even once. But it was a few days later, when Mycroft showed up as Greg was leaving work that the purpose of the meals became clearer. Not being one to beat around the bush, the DI asked Mycroft “Are you trying to ask me out?”

There was a good deal of stammering and blushing from the other man, who looked as if he had been told that the answer was “no” already. “Well, I was hoping...”

Greg walked up to the man and kissed him. “Does that give you an idea of my answer, silly man? Let's not have any pretenses from this point onward. You're gorgeous, and if someone like you wants to be my boyfriend then I'm honored to get to know you better.”

Since that night, the two men had gone out on numerous dates. Plays, dinners, concerts, and on one or two occasions just sitting and talking at Mycroft's flat – all of these things had helped Greg to realize he was falling in love for the second time in his life. Looking at Nia's picture now made him think about how she would be glad that he was starting to move on. And tonight, by introducing Mycroft to his children, he hoped to start crossing a line that would make him a more permanent part of Greg Lestrade's life.

There was one thing that continued to confuse Greg. During the course of their relationship, Mycroft had been aloof from any kind of intimacy. He would kiss Greg, but never for very long and without any kind of passion. On several occasions Greg had tried to move things farther, but Mycroft had always been ready with some kind of excuse.

But tonight would be different. The setting was just right to take things to the next level, and the more personal atmosphere might cause the more reserved man to open up. _And if this doesn't work,_ Greg thought as he told Darcus to get his brother and sister and for Alice to change out of her football uniform, _then I'm going to flat out ask him what's going on here._

* * *

 

Mycroft arrived with a fresh loaf of bread, a suit but no tie, and some modeling clay for Leo and a stuffed cat for Kayla. Greg welcomed him with an embrace and a quick kiss, and introduced each child to his boyfriend before dinner began. Mycroft was nothing but pleasant, and told the children to call him by his first name rather than Mr. Holmes.

The first person to say anything after everyone had helped themselves to food (Greg wished that Mycroft would take more, no matter how much he might have needed to diet in his younger years. It was clear that the government official would like to have more, but was denying himself normal portions.) was Leo. “You've been dating Dad a while, right? How come you haven't come here sooner?”

Mycroft appear to have anticipated the question, and while cutting into his meat said “Two reasons, one being that I travel a fair amount and haven't had the time to meet you, and I also think that your father wanted to be certain about how he felt about me before he brought me home to meet the family.” Leo looked satisfied with the answer, and he smiled as he began to consume his own food.

Kayla, with childish innocence, then asked “Are you going to marry our daddy?”

Greg nearly choked on a potato, and while Leo snickered and Alice gave her sister a harsh look, Darcus ended up breaking the silence by yelling “Kayla! That's private! You can't ask that!”

“But I want to know. If Daddy marries Mycroft, I want to get a new dress like Rachel did when her mommy got married again.”

Greg finally was able to speak. “Honey, Mycroft has just met you, and he doesn't know everyone well yet. If we do think about getting married, then I can assure you we will tell you well in advance.”

The awkward moment passed, and the rest of the meal went smoothly. After dinner, Greg made coffee for Mycroft as well as himself and lemonade for the children. Alice took pride in serving up the plain cake, and everyone sat in the living room talking for some time. Eventually, Greg looked at the time and looked at Kayla (who had one of the cats in her lap) and Leo (who was showing Mycroft some of the pieces he had done in his pottery class) and said “Okay guys, I've let you stay up late enough. Time for bed.”

The younger Lestrades' grumbled somewhat, but they didn't argue too much. They politely thanked Mycroft for being a nice visitor, and went up to begin to prepare for bed. After a brief debate, Greg went up to make certain Leo and Kayla brushed their teeth and that they were tucked in before heading back downstairs. Alice stood up as soon as her father came back and said “I'm going to be heading upstairs myself now. Thanks, Mycroft – it was nice having you here tonight. I hope you can come back soon.” As Alice began to leave, she looked at Darcus until he got the message – Dad wants to be left alone.

“Thanks, Mycroft. I've got to study, so I'll see you later.” It was one of the worst excuses possible, but Mycroft still smiled as the two young people left the room.

“So,” Greg began, hoping for something different this time, “the kids seem to think you're all right. I was worried, especially with you being the first person I've been seeing since Nia died. But it looks like everything went well.”

“Yes. Your children are delightful. Your wife must have been a wonderful person to have such kind children.” Mycroft looked down at his empty coffee cup, and also glanced at his plate that had held two slices of cake earlier.

It was now or never. “So... would you care to relocate upstairs?” Greg half expected a “no” before he even finished asking.

Mycroft instead looked him in the eye and said “To your room?” A nod. “Then we should go.”

* * *

 

Greg was right. Things did go farther than they had before. The kisses shared by the two men were more passionate than the quick pecks that had marked their previous efforts. In fact, Greg felt emboldened to start to remove his shirt, and also began to work on the buttons of Mycroft's shirt. But as he was undoing the buttons, he realized that Mycroft had become completely still, and was showing no signs that he was enjoying the proceedings in any way. He stopped, and said. “Mycroft. Talk to me.”

Mycroft inhaled sharply. “There's nothing to talk about. Continue what you were doing.”

Greg finally lost it. “Yes, there is! We've been seeing each other for nearly half a year, and this is the most you've ever let me touch you! Whenever I try to move things further, you always have an excuse. I'm tired of this. If you don't want sex, then you should tell me instead of pushing me away.”

There was a long silence. “Forgive me, Gregory. I was hoping that things would be different this time. I do wish to be intimate with you, but there are certain... factors... that appear to matter more than I felt they would at first.”

Greg had a bad feeling what he was going to hear, but he did not voice his fears. “Then tell me. What's the matter?”

Mycroft looked down before he began to speak. “When I was a child, I was academically advanced beyond most of my peers. I was so far ahead, that after Sherlock was born, my parents arranged to have a live-in tutor instruct me in whatever it was I wished to learn.” Another pause. “As you may have guessed, this man's intentions were less than noble. He, shortly after he came to live with us, started having me touch him and touching me during our daily lessons. Sometimes he would enter my room at night as well. Eventually he progressed to more invasive acts as well.”

His worst fears confirmed, Greg suddenly remembered when he had learned that Sherlock had not been arrested for drug possession, but instead had been picked up for solicitation. A good deal about the detective was coming into focus now, and he wondered how come he hadn't seen the signs before. “What about Sherlock?”

“When my brother was two, I made a deal with our tutor to leave him alone as long as I offered myself without any fighting. Even after I went away for school, I still met him for sexual acts until I turned eighteen. He tried to get me to meet him after that, but I declined. He's dead now – died when I was twenty-eight. Automobile accident.” Mycroft turned his head, and Greg thought he might have tears in his eyes. “In university, I was intimate with a few fellow students. There weren't very many, because I weighed a good deal more then – I wanted to keep people from desiring me, and few people like a fat man. I truly thought that I could handle this tonight, because otherwise those incidents have had little impact on my life. I am truly sorry.”

Greg wonder who Mycroft thought he was kidding. Did he really think that someone who preyed on him in such a way would be deterred by a deal that a child had made? That he was unaffected by the abuse when the government official had no companions other than his PA and others in his circle only knew him in a vague way? When Mycroft still kept such tight control over his weight, and ate only what he had to in order to appear normal? How much more impact was needed to make it major?

He was so lost in his thoughts, that he almost did not notice Mycroft standing up and gathering his jacket. “Hold on. Where are you going?”

“I felt it would be better if I left now. I am sorry I can't be the boyfriend you deserve to have, Gregory. I understand if you no longer wish to see me, and -” His words were cut off as Greg stood up and took Mycroft by the shoulders.

“I still want you, Mycroft. Even if you don't want anything more, I'd still like to spend tonight with you in my bed, even if all we do is cuddle. I love you, no matter how much sex we have. Remember, I'm a widower and haven't been on any dates but the ones I've had with you, so I can go a while without anything.” Greg began to take out his pajamas and handed another pair to Mycroft. “Please. Stay. Tonight.”

Mycroft nodded. He went into the bathroom to change, and when he came out Greg was sitting up in bed with a book. After a moment's hesitation, he crawled in beside him.

Greg put his arms around Mycroft, but he made no other moves. He stayed that way as the other man slowly wrapped his own arms around Greg, and he stroked Mycroft's hair until the man fell asleep. Part of Greg wanted to go and look in on his children, to see they were alright, but he knew where he was needed for now.

He might not have been able to help Mycroft with everything, but he could be with the other man tonight and hold him close.

For now, that was enough.


	6. In Sickness and Health

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock comes to a revelation following an illness.

 

While Sherlock Holmes may have been dismissive of the demands of his body, this did not mean that he was unaware of the actual demands his physical form made on him.

Therefore, he was perfectly aware of what it likely meant one morning when he work up to a throbbing headache.

In and of itself this would not have been a big deal – Sherlock often had headaches from lack of food and/or sleep on occasion. But as he began to make his way to the bathroom, he also felt somewhat achy throughout his entire body. By the time Sherlock finally made his way into the room, he was shaking and felt as if every bit of food he had eaten in his lifetime was set to come back up and haunt him.

The words of John from less than a month ago came back as Sherlock finished retching. “Flu season is coming up, Sherlock. I'd like it if you got the vaccine, what with your running around all parts of London all the time.” Sherlock had never made an appointment with his GP – in fact, it had been so many years since he had been to see him that Sherlock doubted he was even on the records any longer. The last time he had been there had been too many questions asked about his weight and the marks on his feet and arms. Even with the most blistering observations made, the doctor had still persisted in telling Sherlock how he needed to take better care of himself and had given him the name of a counselor whom he could speak with if he continued down this path. It was easier to not bother with going.

After a period of time in which Sherlock vowed he would never eat again, he got up slowly and rinsed his mouth out with water. There were sounds coming from the kitchen, meaning John was awake. He hadn't heard anything, however, since Sherlock knew from experience that John would come running if he heard anything out of the ordinary. ( _he tried to silence the dreams after that and hoped he hadn't said anything about lessons or drugs or being a freak_ )

He hated being unwell. The times when he had been sick as a child slowly worked themselves into his mind...

“ _Sherlock, I've heard you are not feeling well.” Mr. Bradwell had come upstairs shortly after school would have begun if Sherlock had been attending that day._

_He had tried to make it out the door. But he had vomited shortly after finishing breakfast, and Mummy had said he needed to stay home. “Thank goodness Nathaniel can still teach you today – I'm so glad he's willing to work with you even with your illness.” Now he lay on his bed, unable to stop what he knew was coming next._

_His tutor smiled like a predator who had spotted its prey. “Time for our lessons now. And even though it's not your birthday, I still have a present for you...”_

Sherlock forced the memories off into a corner of his mind. He could not risk John noticing anything. Besides, he was sick, so the best place for him to be was his bed. He slowly made his way into his room and shut his eyes almost as soon as he laid down.

A dim thought crossed his mind that he had forgotten to lock his door, but before Sherlock could get up to fix it he fell into slumber.

* * *

 

The next time Sherlock woke up he was feeling worse. His body was aching even more than it had been before, and he found it a struggle to kick off his covers. The clock said that he had been sleeping for nearly ten hours now, but his body still felt exhausted. The temperature of the bedroom felt as if it were much hotter than Mrs. Hudson normally kept the rooms at, and when Sherlock tried to get up he wound up falling onto the floor almost as quickly as he had stood.

His foolish transport now was not letting him get back into his bed. And he could feel nausea building up in his stomach, and Sherlock knew that he needed to get to a basin at the very least. But rising from the floor was too much for his body, and after a few tries Sherlock stopped making the attempt, his heart pounding in his chest.

“Sherlock? Are you working on something? I heard a thud, and I want to be sure you're all right.” John! The doctor was just now coming up the stairs looking for him. Sherlock tried to call out and say he was fine, but all that came out of his throat was a croak.

“Sherlock? Sherlock!” John had knocked on the door, but when he got no answer he gave the door a slight push and gained access. Sherlock wanted to get away. This was it, John had a perfect chance to take whatever he wished, and Sherlock couldn't fight back because his traitorous body had acquired a virus at some point. His stomach was feeling worse, and he knew he was going to be sick.

John, probably because of his medical background, did not act disgusted when Sherlock vomited as soon as the other man knelt beside him. His hands were placed behind Sherlock's head and on his forehead, and as Sherlock felt his mind going into a haze he heard “Easy. I'm going to get you cleaned off a bit, and then I'll take your temperature. You really do feel warm, and the water should help you a bit.”

Sherlock knew he was shaking – he knew what would happen next. John would place him in the bath, and his hands would go everywhere, and if things got really bad he might even get in the tub himself. Then after he was dried off (“ _I need to make sure you're clean there, Sherlock. Who knows where you've been with that cute figure of yours.”)_ John would get a thermometer and take his temperature in the wrong place. ( _“It's not like you haven't had enough things in your arse already. You'll love this – bet you'll want to stay home sick more often, freak that you are.”_ ) He was so caught up in his fear that he did not register John's departure until he came back in with a knock. “Sherlock? I've brought a cloth for you, since I can tell you're feeling pretty hot. I'm glad I still have my digital thermometer – putting the thing in your ear is faster than waiting for your mouth to register. Besides, if you feel like being sick again, then we would have to start over.” A cool cloth was gently placed on Sherlock's brow. He was dimly aware of the thermometer being placed in his ear, and from the sounds John was making could tell that the number that had come up was too high.

Sherlock could feel John's arms helping him up off the floor and placing him into bed. As the bed sheet was pulled over him, Sherlock thought of how he had worn the sheet when he had been forced into doing work for his brother. Normally Sherlock would not have risked going out without the protection of his scarf and coat, but the prospect of aggravating Mycroft was too good to pass up. Having to be exposed was almost worth it ( _a week of dreams afterward not what happened John please help_ ).

As much as he tried to fight it, Sherlock's body drifted off shortly after he was made comfortable by John. He heard John say “Maybe we'll wait a bit on the bath...” His last thought was that perhaps John would just leave him be while he recovered.

* * *

 

“Sherlock? I need you to wake up. I've got some water here, and I'd like you to try to drink some of it.”

John's voice broke through the haze Sherlock was now in. He could feel a glass being put to his lips, and began to sip the water. The coolness of the liquid was wonderful on his dry throat, and Sherlock almost felt like he could speak again after he had consumed nearly half the glass. His body still ached all over and it still felt far hotter than it was, but the nausea had ebbed somewhat.

“Good, that was more than I thought you'd take. You feel up to something more solid?” A nod. “Okay.” John placed a spoon next to Sherlock's mouth and he slowly took in some soup. It wasn't the homemade kind that John had been known to whip up on dreary days, but the warmth of it lulled Sherlock to sleep once more.

As he shut his eyes, he could feel John's hands stroking his hair, as if he were a child.

* * *

 

The next time Sherlock woke, it was to an increasing pain in his stomach. He wished he hadn't had so much of the soup, and looked around for John, but could not see him. Before Sherlock could even try to get to the bathroom, he was violently ill all over his bed. He shut his eyes, feeling embarrassed and almost hoping John did not return, simply so his humiliation could remain private.

The sound of footsteps. “I'm sorry, I had to get a few things sorted out – oh Sherlock. I should have put the bin next to your bed in case you woke up feeling sick again. Let's get you some fresh sheets, and I'll give you a quick wipe. Before you fall asleep again, I want to take something for the nausea and your fever. I still think it's too high, but I don't want to take you to hospital if I can manage you here.”

Confusion. Why wasn't John yelling at him for making a mess of his bed? Why wasn't he taking advantage of Sherlock's weakness to do things with him? What made John so kind to him, so caring? It couldn't be something Sherlock had done – he was a horrible example of a flatmate, much less a friend. But John was even now helping him into a chair and remaking the bed. “I'll just toss those in the laundry when I get the chance.” New, cool sheets and pills. Sips of water and sleep returning.

* * *

 

_The sheet had been pulled from his body. Sherlock tried not to look alarmed – perhaps if he were to ignore it there would be no reaction from the others present._

_No luck. He could feel hands touching his body in familiar places, and Mycroft was standing with a smile on his face. “Well, brother, I guess if you want to give yourself over to anyone who looks at you, I certainly can't stop you.” He took a step back._

_Sherlock could see John approaching. He wanted to cry for help, to beg John to make them stop. But John smiled, and he began to remove his shirt. “Let's see how much of a virgin he really is now...”_

* * *

 

Sherlock woke up screaming. His throat felt even worse than it had before, and it felt like a fire had been lit somewhere within his body. He nearly cried out again when he felt hands on his shoulders, but John's voice calmed him. “Sherlock, I'm sorry, but I'm going to have to get you in the tub. Your fever has gone up, and if this doesn't work I'm going to take you in. Can you get up?” A shake of his head. “I'll take it slow, then.”

John helped him to his feet and slowly began to move towards the bathroom. It felt like Sherlock had just climbed a mountain when they got there, and he could feel his heart racing. John helped him to the floor, and put some towels down as blanket substitutes. It wasn't particularly comfortable, but Sherlock was more concerned about the bath. John would see his legs, and the scars on them, and seeing him naked might be too much and there was no way Sherlock could stop him, and he wanted to keep John no matter what happened. The last thought was a new one. Why did Sherlock want to keep John so much? If it had been someone else, he would have left after they had had sex with him. Yet Sherlock had a need for John.

“Tub's ready. It'll be easier if you just keep your clothes on – I'll get you something dry if you'd like later.” John's voice interrupted Sherlock's thoughts. It was a bit of a shock when John picked him up off the floor and placed the detective in the lukewarm water. Sherlock shivered almost immediately – the water was so cold. “It's only feeling so bad because you're burning up. I'm going to stay with you, and make sure you don't get too cold. Believe me, when your fever breaks you'll feel much better.” Normally Sherlock would protest at being talked to like he was an imbecile or Anderson, but John did not sound condescending. He came across as clinical, trying to explain a procedure to one of his patients.

The water seemed to change from ice-cold to nicely cold after a few minutes. John kept checking Sherlock's forehead until he said “I think you can get out now. Looks like your fever is breaking at last.”

The heat that had blazed throughout Sherlock did feel somewhat abated. He still felt as if all of the strength had been sucked out of him, so he did not do anything as John used several towels to dry him off. John did the majority of the work in getting Sherlock back to his bed, and pulled the covers up over him as well. He then proceeded to pick up a book, and began to read aloud to Sherlock. The other man's voice felt like a warm blanket for Sherlock's mind, and he slipped into sleep far more easily than he had in many years.

* * *

 

Sherlock woke feeling more present than he had for several days. He slowly sat up and glanced around the room. To his surprise, there was a mess of blankets on the floor with John curled up in them. He could also see an empty plate on his desk, and a half-full glass of water next to it. The whole picture was confusing – why was John here if he hadn't tried to do anything to Sherlock?

“You're awake.” The sounds had woken John up.

Sherlock nodded. “How long have I been...” His voice was scratchy from lack of use.

“Five days. I was afraid I'd have to take you to hospital at some point – your fever was much too high. You also kept vomiting, but I don't know how much you were aware of that since you were so out of it. Why didn't you let me know you were getting ill, Sherlock?” There was the faintest tone of disapproval in John's voice, but the expression on his face was that of utter relief.

Sherlock did not respond, because he was coming to a terrible realization. John looked worn and clearly had not changed his clothes or washed for some time. And yet Sherlock could not imagine a more attractive man – or a more perfect person in every way.

It hit him at that moment: Sherlock Holmes was in love with John Watson. One of the most worthless men in the world was in love with the most wonderful person in the world. He could never let John know, because the best he could hope for was a polite refusal. The worst... but that was not something Sherlock would think of right now.

All he could do was say “Thank you, John.” And the smile that lit up John's face when he spoke was, in Sherlock's mind, worth the pain of knowing the person he loved could never care for him in return.


	7. Revelations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some of Sherlock's secrets are revealed, and the effect on the man is a bit not good.

 

“Your birthday is coming up.”

The statement seemed so out of the blue coming from John that at first Sherlock thought that he was mishearing him. The two men had just finished dinner a short while ago, and while Sherlock had draped himself on the sofa doing nothing at all John was seated in front of his laptop.

“My birthday.” It was more a statement of fact than a question. “May I ask what sorts of asinine things you have planned for an occasion that marks nothing more than when I happened to arrive on this world?” The idea that John wanted to honor his birthday in some manner struck Sherlock as being absurd. In the Holmes family, birthdays were not celebrated in any way other than perhaps a brief “It’s your birthday.” Mycroft had at times gotten money from their parents, but Sherlock knew that he would never get anything tangible as a gift. He was too much of a bad child. Only one person had ever given him any kind of birthday gift… Sherlock shook his head, trying to push back the memories.

“I was just wondering what you might like for a gift, or what it is you normally do on your birthday. What have you and Mycroft done in the past?” John did not seem to notice any change in his friend, so he must have been successful at keeping past gifts at bay.

“Nothing. He’s taken me out; I refuse to eat. My brother gets me gifts; I send them back. Birthdays are ridiculous sentiment. Only ordinary people need to celebrate them. I don’t need any foolish gifts or cake or a party or anything that you think a birthday needs. John, you of all people should know I don’t do sentiment.”

Sherlock thought that he had won, as John turned away from him and did not speak for a few minutes. His reply came as a surprise to the detective. “So, when it was my birthday I must have misremembered you taking me out for my favorite curry, then. The new mobile, Doctor Who DVDs, and tickets to that concert must have just appeared by magic somehow. Or what about Mrs. Hudson? The spa getaway she ended up with on her birthday certainly didn’t come from me. I’ve seen you give ordinary people presents on their birthdays, and you’ve never said anything like this then.” John turned to face him. “I think that if you can give us something then I should be able to give you something. It’s only fair.”

_His bedroom. A voice, whispering in his ear. “I’m going to give you something for your birthday, Sherlock. I bet you’re already excited for it. Always ready to go…”_ Sherlock stood up and grabbed one of the arms of the sofa, focusing on the feel of the upholstery. “John, I advise you to stop talking about this birthday nonsense. You will not be able to grant me your image of a happy birthday, because that is not possible for me.” His instincts were telling him to leave at once. Typically it was seeing someone who looked like Nathaniel had or someone making a sexual advance towards him that caused the past images to come like they were. If it got too bad, then there was no telling what John might end up hearing. Sherlock wanted to make sure that his only friend was still willing to be around him, and if he learned about the lessons then the chances of that happening were quite small.

John kept on pushing. “I don't know why you are having such a hard time with this. I'll get you something that you'll like and that will be that.”

It was too late. Sherlock knew that he couldn't get out in time, and that he should have left well before it got to this point. He tried to remain as calm as possible as the memories washed over him...

* * *

 

“ _Happy birthday, Sherlock.” The words of his tutor woke him from as peaceful a slumber as Sherlock ever had. Mr. Bradwell's hand began to lightly stroke his face. “Sixteen today, are we. You're getting close to being an adult. It will be nice once you're grown – we won't have to hide what we do together anymore. I've got a whole bunch of presents for you tonight. I bet you can't wait to try them out.”_

_It was the same thing on Sherlock's birthday since he had turned twelve. Mr. Bradwell always came in first thing in the morning to wake him up had talk about his plans for the day. The plans were always for lessons and they normally included the presents his tutor gave him. The gifts were never shown to anyone – they were always either sex toys or pornographic materials that gave Nathaniel new acts and positions to try on Sherlock. And after receiving each gift, Sherlock was required to thank the man for being so generous with him. After all, his parents certainly didn't give him gifts or even acknowledge that it was his birthday._

_Mr. Bradwell smiled as Sherlock sat up in bed, waiting for what would happen next. “Since it's your special day, I'm giving you a choice. How do you want me now? I'll let you decide.”_

* * *

 

John didn't know why he was trying to keep on pushing the issue of birthday presents with Sherlock. The detective had made his feelings on the matter very clear, and if John pushed too hard it would likely trigger a sulking fit that would last for days if he was unlucky.

Besides, John already knew what he was getting Sherlock. By pure chance he had found a website that sold plush organs, and it seemed to be the kind of thing that Sherlock would like. A set of seven would be a bit more than John would normally spend for one of his friends, but Sherlock was more than an ordinary friend. He privately felt that Sherlock would be even more impressed with the actual organs, but given the sanitary issues that would surround keeping them in the flat the plush guts would be the best option.

Since John had turned to face his laptop again it wasn't until he caught a glimpse of Sherlock standing up and holding on to the edge of the sofa that he realized something was not right. At first John wondered if Sherlock was just getting up to leave, but the distinct tremor that could be seen running through the other man caused John's heart to skip a beat. “Sherlock? Are you alright?”

When there was no response, John turned around to face his friend. Sherlock's lips were moving, and he was clearly saying something although it was too faint to make out the words. Now seriously alarmed, John bolted up and went over to Sherlock. He could then hear the words his friend was saying. “Please... just my mouth this time.” Abruptly Sherlock then sank down to his knees, still repeating the words he had said before, as if they were a mantra.

John's head suddenly felt light and he was afraid he would pass out for a moment. He knew what was happening to Sherlock. He'd seen other soldiers he had served with have PTSD flashbacks before. John himself had never had anything go quite that far – the nightmares he had had been more than enough of a problem in his life. But this was different. Right in front of John's eyes, he was getting an answer to the question of whether or not Sherlock had been abused as a child.

A part of John pointed out that the experience Sherlock had had of being repeatedly raped when he was attending university alone would be enough to cause a flashback like the one Sherlock appeared to be having, but there was a problem with this idea. The little bits of information John had gotten on what had happened during Sherlock's uni days indicated that there had been not much said between Sherlock and Sebastian during their encounters. It did not fit to have Sherlock voice a preference for how he would rather be violated.

Sherlock's breath was now coming in gasps, and John was afraid that he would pass out in front of him. He then sank down to his knees next to his friend and began to say “Sherlock? Can you hear me? This is 2012. You are in 221B, and I am the only one here. No one is going to hurt you. You are safe now.” John didn't know if he was helping or not by trying to remind Sherlock of where he now was, but anything had to be better than just sitting waiting for the spell to end.

Suddenly, Sherlock began to blink his eyes and look around the room. “John... what...” His words trailed off. “Oh God.” Before John was able to say anything, Sherlock had jumped to his feet and raced out the door of the flat.

“Sherlock? Sherlock!” John tried to follow him outside, but by the time he made it to the front door there was no sign of Sherlock Holmes anywhere. Given how well the man knew the streets of London, John would have to literally search every street in order to find Sherlock now. Instead, John slowly went back upstairs into his room.

No matter what happened or when Sherlock came back, he would make certain there was a light on for him.

* * *

 

It wasn't until Sherlock had managed to get a cab that he allowed himself to catch his breath and think about what had just happened. He quickly gave a destination and watched as the streets went by. He was lucky that he had put his wallet in a place where he could grab it while he fled. But even if he hadn't been able to get any money to bring with him, there was no way he could stay in 221B after the disaster that had just unfolded.

John _knew._ He knew everything about how bad and dirty Sherlock was. How could he ever face John again? What would his only friend say when he saw him again? Would he mock him for being so hard to resist sexually?

Before Sherlock could answer the questions he was forming, the cab arrived at his chosen spot. The cabbie looked rather skeptical at the clearly affluent man who was getting off in a rather run-down area, but a large tip left him somewhat mollified.

He knew where to go and what exactly he needed. Now that Sherlock had his inheritance, he no longer needed to concern himself with how he would pay for his drugs. If he no longer had John, then cocaine would serve to fill up all of the empty places instead.

He gladly exchanged some money for a small bag. With a smile on his face, Sherlock headed for one of his hiding places in the area. He prepared the drugs for injecting, and as the needle punctured his veins a sense of peace washed over him.


End file.
